Breaking the Fourth Wall
by Saber Wing
Summary: Because desperate times call for desperate measures.


_**Author's Note: **_I watched GT over again just to see if it was as bad as I was remembering.

It wasn't. It was _worse. _This little crack fic was the result of some of my rage. Starts at the beginning of the Super Seventeen Saga, because I FUCKING REFUSE TO BELIEVE TRUNKS FUCKING BRIEFS WOULD BE DEFEATED BY FUCKING ANDROID SEVENTEEN I MEAN FUCK WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE DID YOU EVEN WATCH Z? DID YOU?

Okay. Okay, I think I can handle this better now. Maybe. Probably.

* * *

It was an awesome day to be awesome.

Trunks Briefs, super-powered alien prince/executive, took off the glasses he somehow needed to read with and leaned back against the seat, waiting for his driver to transport him safely to dinner. Making a complete asshat out of yourself day in and day out was exhausting. He was never going to forgive his agent for convincing him to take this 'Dragonball GT' gig. He'd thought it would at least be marginally similar to Z, but what the _shit _was this? What had he gotten himself into?

Speaking of which, he'd just remembered part of what this coming scene was going to be about. Crap.

As if in answer, Android Seventeen swooped out in front of the vehicle and blasted him and his driver into oblivion. Fuck. He didn't get paid enough to do this shit. What was the line again?

Eh. Screw the lines, he had money.

"You just blew up my limo. I _liked _that limo. Prepare to die!"

Trunks quickly powered up to his Super Saiyan form and swept Seventeen's legs out from underneath him, placing his foot roughly against his throat to subdue him. He extended his hand and conjured a ki blast, ready to release, when the android held his arms out in front of him, struggling to speak from his soon-to-be-crushed wind pipe. Or, well. Whatever the fuck his throat was made of.

"Hey, hey, cool it dude! Did you forget the script? I'm the one who's supposed to beat _you. _In like, fifty-four seconds."

"Oh yeah, right. Sorry, I…wait a second, why am I the one who loses? Aren't you just regular old Android Seventeen? What the fuck man, I faced Majin Buu when I was _eight_ and lived to tell the tale, and now you're saying _you_ beat the shit out of me? In _fifty-four seconds_?"

"Hey, you're lucky I counted from the time I blew up the car. That almost boosted you to a minute. You can thank me later."

"Ugh, this is so degrading. You aren't going to rape and brutally murder me when you're done, are you?"

"Psh. Of course not. This is primarily a children's show. Besides, why would I want to have any form of sexual contact with _you?"_

"Because _everyone _wants to have sexual contact with me. Bitch, I'm _fabulous. _And sexy."

"Future Trunks was hotter."

Trunks crossed his arms, his lower lip in a pout. "That's a little unfair, don't you think? Nobody is sexier than him. I'm pretty sure most straight guys would hit that. Besides, it's not like you have any room to talk, Mr. Orange Neckerchief. Those only work when I wear them."

Seventeen raised an eyebrow, and his lips twitched with amusement. "Trunks, if there's one thing we can agree on, it's that we both look like bad cosplayers at an anime-convention. Seriously, bro. You're wearing khaki shorts and a blue neckerchief, paired with brown leather gloves, and a jacket that looks like you stole it from the set of BBC Merlin. I think I'd rather be seen in Goten's purple pants, and that is saying something."

"At least my humiliating wardrobe malfunctions have just been in GT. You've _always_ looked stupid."

"Aw come on, my outfit is bad, but it isn't _that _bad…"

"Neon green leg warmers, Seventeen. Over _blue jeans. _With an _orange _neckerchief._"_

Seventeen had nothing to say to that. "Touché', my dysfunctional little friend. Touché'."

Trunks grew silent for a moment, shuddering in dismay. "Well, there's one thing about our current predicament that is indisputably the most horrifying sight the known world has ever seen."

Seventeen cocked his head, a question in his gaze.

"My dad; our very own 'Prince of All Mexican Mustaches'. We all got shafted so god damn bad in this series, it's hard to pinpoint who has it worse, but seriously…did you _see _his outfit in the first episode? I'm kind of having a hard time coming up with something more heart-wrenching than the might Prince Vegeta looking he's just returned from a rousing game of mini-golf."

Both men dissolved into giggles before they even realized what was happening, though Seventeen finally broke off after a solid five minutes, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "We've been talking about clothes for way too long. I need to do something manly, before I forget I'm not supposed to have estrogen. Speaking of which, I should probably be shattering your spine or something right about now."

Trunks frowned, crossing his arms over his chest as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Do I get to come out of this with all of my limbs and organs intact?"

Seventeen grinned. Evilly, because he was _totally _evil and stuff, and we're supposed to be afraid of something we've already seen beaten before. "No promises."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ow. Ouch. Fucking _ouch. _He was getting out of this contract. So help him, he was getting _out _of this contract if it was the last thing he ever did. Trunks trudged up to the doors of the Son household, ringing the doorbell and waiting for the next dumb shit scene to start up. He hoped this one would be at least semi-realistic. He was dying here. Surely that should make for some palpably tension and drama, right?

He could hear Pan screaming something at him from behind the door, and then she was opening it, big ass toothy grin and all. That soon faded, however, when she saw the condition he was in.

"Trunks? What happened to you?"

Ooooh. Quick, say something melo-dramatic and pretend to faint, like all of the cool super heroes do.

"It was…Android Seventeen! Ugh." Then he toppled over onto the girl, who buckled under his weight, and everyone surrounded him, murmuring suitably worried things, asking what was wrong, etc. etc. Well, maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe the scene would end here, or the viewers would get to see some nice, angsty racing against time to save Trunks' life. Maybe a concerned Vegeta would walk in, demand an explanation and blow off somebody's head, or something equally as badass.

Then the fucking dimwits just _had_ to go and ruin his well thought out fantasies. Perfect.

"Hey? What's that?" Pan questioned, shielding her eyes as she gazed back the way Trunks had come.

Goku gasped, pointing. "Is there a _hole_ in the sky?"

"Hey, this is _way _more important than making sure Trunks doesn't die, never mind the fact that he just collapsed at our feet covered in wounds. We could just have a few people go outside to see what's up, and a few stay here and take care of Trunks, but that would be far too much logic for the audience to handle. I'm sure he's fine, gaping wounds and all," Bulma reasoned, expressionless and anything but worried. Without further preamble, whoever had been holding his head up dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor, and slowly, the Z warriors piled outside one by one, faces turned upward.

Surely they'd remember him and come back in.

He waited a few minutes. Still nothing.

"Uh, guys? Still dead in here."

"Shut up, Trunks. We're trying to figure out what the giant hole in the sky did to you."

Trunks scowled and rolled his eyes. "Sorry, sorry. I'll just go back to bleeding out on your floor in silence."

"Appreciate it, thanks!" came Goku's cheerful reply.

The demi-Saiyan gave a long suffering sigh, falling back onto the floor in defeat. "I hate this fucking show."


End file.
